When I was a young boy, very, very young, I read Blake under trees and in the
shelter of rocks. I could smell the salty breeze of the ocean. I felt as large
as the ocean, like Whitman or Yevtushenko. “The Tyger” emerged from the foam of
the waves, at noontime, not the forest of the night. Was it because of The
Tyger that I still seek symmetry? In vain. Tyger, then as now, chaos. Chaos
that I am. Fearful symmetry.